Once Upon a Time in New Vegas, Money? Money never changes... Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Greetings and salutations, good folk of Chorrol.com forums! I return once more to these fair forums bearing a tale I would add to your vaunted archive of work, a tale of the Mojave Wasteland, a story of intrigue, betrayal and greed, a prelude to the epic chronicle of the Courier. For who were the people who made the great changes wrought upon this place possible? Of course, we all know of the plotting of Mr. House, the ambition of Caesar and Benny, the hopes of the NCR, but what, I ask you, of the little people who made all of that possible? What of those who brought all of these grand plans together, the real unsung heroes of that great story?

Sit back and relax, my friends, and prepare to be told the tale of those who made everything possible, a true tale of the Mojave Wasteland and of New Vegas, first told by the Softworkers of Bethesda and related to you now, in the hope you might take pity on a traveller and grant him food and shelter for a night.

Prepare to hear the tale of Anston and Co.

"Lack of money is the root of all evil."-George Bernard Shaw

Chapter 1

"Oh god, please I'm begging you, please stop, just please stop, please, I-"

The length of wood thumped down and silenced the pleading, reducing it to nought but whimpering through broken teeth. The figure on the floor curled up in a ball, trying to shelter his head from the blows the two baseball bat wielding individuals standing above him would bring down. It did him little good, another slamming into the back of his skull with painful thud.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Michael exclaimed, snatching the bat away from Ripley's hand before he could hit him again. "We were paid to mess his face up, not kill him, idiot!"

He shook his head, before prodding the prone figure with the tip of the bat.

"He still alive?" he asked.

"He's still whining like a little kid, if that's what you want to know," Alex said, nudging his victim in the stomach with his boot.

"Good," Michael said as the pleading began once more.

"I've got caps," he sobbed desperately. "You want them, take them. Just please, damn it, please stop. I'm begging you here."

The nudge became a kick.

"Shut up, pal!" Alex snapped, snarling. "Jesus, some people don't get the hint, do they?"

"Way you've been hitting him, I'm betting he's not gonna be taking many hints all that easy now," Brutus remarked with a chuckle. "Mike, how come I can't have a go on him?"

"You're six and a half feet of muscle and steroids, that's why, idiot. You'll kill him with one damn hit," Michael replied with a dismissive shake of his head. He sat down on his victim's bed, smoothing down the lapel of the dirty suit he wore, before he said; "You know why we're here, George?"

From his place on the floor, George shook his head.

"Because you're a moron, that's why," Michael said. "Because you didn't think about who you slept with, and now you've got to pay for thinking with your damn loaf of bread."

All he got was a whimper of frightened pain, and he shook his head. He wasn't expecting much else anyway.

"Hey, boss, I was doing a little thinking of my own," Alex said, pushing George onto his back where he clutched at his ruined face. There was the same smile on his face that he always wore when he was thinking of something particularly nasty. "You know you've got that saying yours, about importance of the customer?"

"Oh yeah," Michael said. "'The customer is the most important part of the job,' that's the one."

"Yeah, right, well I was thinking, maybe we should do a little more on George here," Alex said, prodding his prone victim's crotch with the tip of his bat. "Y'know, going the extra mile for the customer? I mean, seeing as our friend here thought of this before anything else, maybe we could make sure that our, uh, offending article could be made to think twice."

Michael nodded, a slow grin crawling across his face.

"Of course," he said. "I mean, hey, what does Anston and Co. value more than its beloved customers? We're always willing to do a little extra for them, Alex, always. We've got a reputation to keep up, after all." Alex smiled, before the bat thudded down and George screamed.

"Hey, I think I just realised how good maintaining customer relations feels," he announced cheerfully.

"Value the customer, that's what I've always said," Michael said. "And speaking of which…"

He pressed a few buttons on the Pip-Boy 3000 on his wrist, tuning the inbuilt two-way radio, before he said into it; "That Mr Palson there?"

"It is," came a gruff reply. "Who is it?"

"It's Michael Anston, of Anston and Co." Michael answered. "About a certain individual you asked us to deal with."

"You got him?"

"Bleeding, rolling on the floor and crying like a damn baby," Michael said. "Hey, Brutus, pick him up and get him over here, will you?"

Brutus reached over with his massive robotic arm, the pincer at the end roughly picking up his victim by the shoulder and hauling him over to the bed.

"Georgey," Michael said to him warmly as he was dropped next to him. "I've got Mr Palson on the other end here. Y'know, the man whose daughter you dishonoured? I reckon you've got something to say to him, haven't you?"

George nodded slightly drunkenly, before he said; "I'm sorry for messing around with your daughter, Mr Palson sir. It won't happen again."

"It had better not," the voice of Mr Palson said. He chuckled. "Sounds like you did a real number on him there."

"Well, we take our job seriously," Michael replied. "But believe me, he won't be luring any decent young women into his clutches again any time soon, don't you worry about that."

"Glad to hear it," Palson said. "You head back here and I'll settle your payment."

"Just give it to Doris, she should still be around," Michael said. "Remember, redhead chick? She'll be picking it up for us."

"Oh, your young lady friend," Palson replied. "I'll get it to her, don't you worry about that. Thanks very much."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Palson," Michael said. "Be sure to hire out Anston and Co. for all your future violence-based needs."

"I think I might just," Palson said. "I'll have someone contact you again if I ever need your, ah, services. Palson out."

Michael grinned as he flicked it off, before he stood up and crouched next to George.

"Now, Georgey," Michael said cheerfully to his victim, who was near falling into unconsciousness. "What have we learned today, then?"

"Not to…not to mess around with…the wrong ladies," he managed to slur in reply, looking at Michael with unfocussed eyes.

"Very good," Michael replied patronisingly, patting him on the head. He grimaced as his hand caught a smear of blood from the hair, and wiped it off on George's shirt. "Now don't do it again, or we'll have to come back and finish the job, and we don't want, do we?"

George shook his head.

"Atta boy," Michael said. "Glad we've got an understanding, eh? Now you keep out of trouble, friend!"

He straightened up, adjusting his fedora before he strode out of the door, with a triumphant announcement of; "Gentlemen, our good deed for the day is complete. Now let's go and collect our well-earned reward, shall we?"

He led the way through the grimy corridors of Freeside's Weatherly Hotel, tipping his hat to the old woman who sat the ancient desk at the foyer of the hotel. She simply watched him go warily, the small sum of caps Michael had given her in exchange for George's room number already disappeared into a strongbox.

Being paid made everything look better, Michael said, even as he looked upon the dingy slum that was Freeside, baking in the heat of the Mojave summer. The sun shone down mercilessly, beating off tarmac and concrete, and most of the residents that could be indoors were hiding to escape the heat, while beggars and vagrants huddled in the shade afforded to them by the ruined buildings.

"How come I had to come along for this job?" Brutus asked as they made their way down the cracked and worn street.

"Freeside ain't safe, is it?" Michael said. "People would be trying to jump us all over the shop if you weren't here to scare them away." "I could," Alex said.

"Alex, you're a goddamn kid," Michael replied. "A baby molerat isn't gonna be scared by you. I mean, three guys going along here by themselves, they'll think we're not too hard a target. But if there's four of us, and one of them's some big guy with a giant pincery robot arm, then they're gonna think twice about it, aren't they?"

"But I like the Strip," Brutus protested.

"All you'd be doing is gambling your hard-earned caps away or spending it to get balls deep in some guy in Gomorrah," Michael said. "I'm doing you a favour, buddy."

"He's gonna be doing that anyway," Ripley pointed out. "I was planning on it."

"Since when were you into guys?" Alex asked.

"I meant with a ghoulette, idiot," Ripley snapped back. "God, you're stupid sometimes."

"Hey, shut up," Alex retorted.

"Oh, both of you can it!" Michael exclaimed despairingly. "Y'know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you people,"

They drew up at the gate to the Strip, the mesh fencing and crude concrete barricade blocking their way to the jewel of the Mojave. As always, the small guard of Securitrons was manning it, and one of the machines wheeled towards Michael, the cartoonish policeman on the screen at the centre of the bulky blue robot's chassis scowling at him.

++State your business++ it demanded, its artificial voice harsh and grating.

"Just heading onto the Strip," Michael said.

++Credit check++ the Securitron said brusquely, in reply to which Michael held up a slip of paper.

"Corporate pass," he said. "Anston and Co."

There was a whirr, before the machine announced ++Pass verified. Carry on through++

The gate slid open as the Securitron wheeled aside, and four fifths of Aston and Co. stepped through into the most wondrous place on earth.

Even in the middle of the day, the New Vegas Strip glowed, neon ablaze even in the harsh glare of the sun. To their left rose the vacant Lucky 38 Casino, the sign advertising its famous revolving restaurant vandalised by some joker long ago to replace the second 'V' with a harsh black 'T'. On the other side of the street, bedecked in crackling flames of ionised gas, Gomorrah beckoned with the gaudy lure of debauchery and pleasure, while the Tops promised riches galore right down to the suited guards standing outside. Vault-22's unbecoming façade seemed to both hide and flaunt the potential hidden below, while the Ultra-Luxe sat apart and aloof from its base brethren.

Michael ignored these beguiling sights for one that he found standing before him. Sunlight glistened off red hair, pouting crimson lips smiled at him alluringly, and Doris stepped forward from the kerb to grab Michael in an embrace and kiss him. So what if that beauty was through the work of the expensive, rare commodity of makeup? She still looked damn good in Michael's eyes.

"Hey baby," he said after a moment, still holding her waist and grinning at her. "How you doing?"

"I'm not happy, hun," she said. "You know I don't like it when you go off for work when you're supposed to be having fun. And you dragged the others with you as well! That ain't fair on them, sweety."

"Told you," Brutus said slightly triumphantly. "Hey, I got an opportunity and I took it," Michael said defensively, kissing her again. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, honey, you shouldn't just waltz off like that," Doris protested half-heartedly. "You know I don't like being excluded from things."

"Hey, it was dirty work," Michael replied. "You know I don't like you getting involved in that stuff."

"So busting Raider dens, doing drug runs for the Khans and getting knee-deep in mirelurks and molerats ain't dirty work?" Doris asked.

"Ah, c'mon, you were having such a nice time at the Ultra-Luxe I thought it wouldn't be fair to drag you away," Michael said. "Besides, you know me; I take an opportunity when I get it. That's why you hooked up with me, baby. You said I was destined for great things, remember? I had the ambition you looked for in a guy."

He kissed her again, and she giggled slightly.

"Forgive me?" he asked.

"Alright, honey, you know I can't stay angry at you for long," she said. "And I suppose we've got the rewards of this little opportunity taking, ain't we?"

"'Xactly," Michael said. "Don't say I don't treat you nice, eh?"

"Hey, lovebirds," Alex interjected. "You gonna give us our caps any time soon?"

"Alright, alright," Michael said. "Doris, sweety, you got 'em? Don't want all my hard work being for nothing."

"Yeah, your hard work," Ripley muttered.

"Hey, I'm the brains of this operation," Michael retorted. "And delegation is part of leadership, isn't it? Besides, I ended up getting blood on my hands; you know how I hate it when that happens."

"Oh boohoo," Ripley said sarcastically. "Anyway, the caps?"

"Sure, sure," Doris said, pulling a pouch from her pocket. "Payment was two hundred and fifty caps, so fifty each."

"Ah c'mon, that's barely enough to get a lapdance or nothin'," Alex complained.

"Hey, they've got slot machines and roulette tables in Gomorrah, haven't they?" Michael asked. "Might get lucky and win big. Besides, what happened to the rest of your cash?"

"Lost it all in poker," Alex mumbled, blushing slightly.

"Typical," Ripley muttered, the ghoul shaking his head.

"Ah, just blush like that around a couple of rich-looking ladies and they'll probably take pity on you," Brutus said. "It's what you always seem to do, anyway."

"Hey, I'm a charmer," Alex said. "What can I say?"

"Whatever works for ya," Michael said, handing out the caps. "You guys go and enjoy your night."

"You not coming with?" Brutus asked.

"I'm not letting my Michael into that place with you people," Doris declared. "I'd be a single woman before the morning."

"And be with some moneyed up Chairman by the next," Ripley remarked disparagingly, getting a vicious glare from Doris.

"We'll be at the Tops," Michael said. "You want to meet us tomorrow?"

"Sure, outside the Lucky 38," Brutus said.

"Great," Michael grinned, clapping his hands together. "Go have a little fun, fellas."

The three turned towards the hive of sin to drink and gamble the day away, and as Michael and Doris began to wend their way to the tops the redhead laid a hand on his arm and said; "Hey, sweetie…"

"I know that voice," Michael said, an edge of humorous weariness to his voice. "You're gonna ask me for something, aren't you?"

"You know me too well, hun," Doris said. "I was wondering though; could I borrow a few caps?"

"What? What happened to the ones you had when we came here?"

"Oh, come on, it's the Strip," Doris protested. "What do you think happened to them?"

Michael shook his head despairingly.

"God dammit, did you lose them on the slots again?" he asked.

"What? I like those," Doris protested. "You can win real big."

"Doris, I've told you a thousand times, the slots are a goddamn scam," Michael said. "The odds against you are way too high."

"Hey, people win on them," Doris protested as the couple stepped back onto the curb towards the spacious driveway of the Tops.

"Well yeah, a couple of people win on them so they can fool everyone else like the gullible suckers they are," Michael said, before hastily adding; "Not saying you're one though, baby. But we're using these caps on the poker table, alright? That's how we'll win big."

"Whatever you say, sweety," Doris replied somewhat half-heartedly, but as they approached the doors of the Tops, one of the suited guards pulling it open for them, Michael wasn't listening.

He could already feel the money flowing into his pockets.

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Feb 28 2013, 01:59 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Chapter 3

“We’re rich, we’re rich, we’re really goddamn rich! We’re rich, we’re rich, we’re really goddamn rich!”

As Michael celebrated, the Strip was ablaze. Neon glared from every sign, tickling his senses as he danced on the cracked concrete outside the Tops, whooping and cheering to the clear dome of the desert’s night-time sky. Buzzing on Jet and pure euphoria, he clapped his hands, grinning at the panoply of light and music before him, raising his arms like a man caught in religious rapture, turning on the spot and grabbing Doris in an embrace before kissing her roughly on the cheeks.

“Honey, calm down,” she protested, laughing in any case.

“Calm down? Calm down?” Michael said. “I’ve just landed us the biggest job we’ve got yet! Why the hell should I want to calm down? I’m king of the world, here! I’m Caesar, Papa Khan, President Kimball and Mr goddamn House all rolled into one at the moment! I’m a frickin’ god! Why should I be calm?”

“Sweety, it’s just the Gun Runners,” Doris said, raising a hand to try and calm her lover. “I mean, they’re not that big, and it’s not even that huge a job.”

“Not that big? Not that big?! Doris, baby, they’re one of the richest merchant families to come out of the New California Republic, and they said that they’d heard that we were good,” Michael said. “They’d heard that we were good! That’s what matters, don’t you get it? They approached us, not the other way round! That’s big news, sweety, huge news! Those guys are big fish, and they wanted, above all the other merc groups in this area, us. They went and looked us up!”

Let me take a minute to explain here. In the merc business, reputation is everything. Y’see, every time you hire out a mercenary, you’re taking a risk, making a gamble. Yeah, sure, they might do the job, but then again they might just the down payment and then leave, or sell on whatever it was you wanted to pick up to a higher bidder. But the problem with that is that nobody wants to employ you once word gets round, and soon enough you find yourself scavenging or in a gang. Even the big players like Talon Company over in the east eventually went down that way, once they got cocky; though apparently some unkillable wastlander started going after them as well, this ‘Lone Wanderer’ all the trading caravans keep from over there going on about (and if you believe half the stories about that guy it seems he can shoot lasers from his eyes and kill people just by yelling at them). Anyway that’s where Anston and Co. differ; our business plan revolves around us being one hundred percent reliable, so that people didn’t just employ us once, but kept coming back to us again and again. Our goal was long-term customer retention; that was where the real money was.

“Right, we gotta find the others, tell them about it,” Michael declared. “Man, they’re gonna love this!”

“Michael, maybe we should wait until tomorrow?” Doris suggested. “Y’know, let them enjoy their evening; you already dragged them out for a job once today.”

“No way, we’ve gotta get on this now,” Michael said. “C’mon!”

He hurried along the cracked and battered paving stones, Doris in his wake, riding the ethereal wave of the Jet as well as his own greedy joy. He barely waited for the guards at the entrance to Gomorrah to pull the door open for him before he was through, drawing his pistol and handing it handle first to the bouncer there who collected weapons from the patrons.

“Where’s Brutus?” he asked the man he had just given his weapon to.

“Brutus?”

“Big guy, good six feet tall, Caesar’s Legion-style gear, giant robot arm. Can’t miss him,” Michael said. “I need to talk to him.”

“And you are?”

“His boss, damn it. Where is he?”

“I can’t say myself, but if you want to wait here and I can ask…”

“No point, I’ll find him myself,” Michael said, stepping past him. He hurried through the main hallway of the casino, past the main gambling floor bedecked in grubby, ancient marble, walls decorated with peeling pink-red paper. Through a corridor he went, into the main theatre of Gomorrah, a huge, dingy room bedecked in faded, crumbling gold leaf, more slot machines lining the wall while part of the hall housed roulette, blackjack and poker tables. Brutus was to one side, leaning back in a large Brahmin-leather chair while some androgynous kid who seemed even younger than Alex cavorted and gyrated on his lap, the Legionary’s contented grin indicating his approval at the services he had just bought.

“Brutus,” Michael called. “Hey, Brutus!”

He hurried over, the Legionary finally catching Michael’s gaze before the merc stopped by the chair where Brutus was enjoying himself. The kid glanced over his shoulder at Michael as he performed some kind of complex turning manoeuvre on the giant’s lap.

“Brutus,” Michael said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait, Mike?” Brutus asked, gesturing to the kid.

“No it can’t,” Michael replied. “For god’s sake man, I’ve got a job, a proper job. Get the kid out the way, will you? I’m trying to talk to you here.”

“It’s a job,” Brutus said. “Great. It can wait until tomorrow.”

The kid, on the other hand, ignored Michael and continued his dance with a nod of approval from Brutus.

“No it can’t,” Michael said. “We do the job tomorrow, right now we plan it.”

“We can plan it tomorrow as well,” Brutus countered, not really listening. Michael shoved the kid off Brutus, the dancer falling to the ground with a startled yelp. He shot a reproachful glare at the CEO of Anston and Co. and Michael tossed him a handful of caps, saying; “Get lost, kid, we’re talking here.”

A tip was a tip, and the boy gathered them up and scurried away.

“Hey, I was enjoying that!” Brutus protested, before Michael grabbed him by the shoulders, leaning close as he said; “Brutus, buddy, we’ve got bigger things to deal with here. It’s a big job, the biggest we’ve ever had!”

Brutus was quiet for a moment, before he said; “You’ve been taking Jet again, haven’t you Mike?”

“And what?” Michael asked. “You’re not in the Legion any more, what do you care? And for the last damn time, we have bigger things to deal with here!”

“Fine, what is it?” Brutus asked.

“The Gun Runners,” Michael said. “The goddamn Gun Runners went and gave us a job. They approached us, Brutus, one of the big players approached us.”

“You sure it was one of them?” Brutus asked.

“It was that Alexander guy,” Michael said. “Y’know, the one who gets most of their business with the caravans and up at Hoover Dam?”

“Yeah, I know the one,” Brutus said. “So what’s the job?”

“I’ll explain once everyone’s here,” Michael said. “Where’re Alex and Ripley?”

Brutus thought for a moment, before he shrugged and said; “No idea. Could be anywhere.”

Michael was quiet for a moment, before he kicked over a chair and swore.

#

“Heya Mick,” Michael said nonchalantly as he entered the small Freeside store. He took the aviators he usually wore off so that he could see in the dingy, dim ambience of the shop’s overhead striplights, and grinned at the shopkeeper of Mick and Ralph’s. “How you doing?”

“I’m alright, yeah,” Mick replied cautiously from his place behind the counter, watching Michael as he headed towards the counter through one of the store’s two aisles of shelving. “What can I do for you, Michael? You looking to buy?”

“Just wanted some information, that’s all,” Michael said. “Y’know, part of our contract.”

The ‘contract’ that Anston and Co. held with most of the shopkeepers in Freeside was not, before you ask, protection. We paid a fair price for their goods, and we didn’t ask for any caps; poor guys had enough to pay all the other gangs and thugs around there, and we put more pressure on them and we might end up with nowhere to resupply on vital stuff. Instead, our deal was a fair one; you give us information when we need it, and Brutus doesn’t smash the place up and rip your arms off.

“Can’t say I know anything important,” Mick said. “Nothing interesting’s come up.”

“Ahuh?” Michael asked. “Y’know, new business deals, stuff like that.”

“Er…no,” Mick replied. “Nothing like that.”

Michael raised an eyebrow and asked; “You sure? You sound a little…uncertain.”

The rusted bell that hung over Mick and Ralph’s door tinkled merrily as it swung open, Brutus’ huge silhouette ducking under the frame and stepping inside. His claw rested on the top of one of the shelves, indicating calmly that, while he wouldn’t right now, it would be very, very easy to send all of its fragile contents crashing down.

“Look, I don’t know anything,” Mick insisted.

“Really?” Michael asked. “I want you to think real hard about this.”

“Hey, if I call Ralph in here-” Mick began before Brutus interrupted with; “Then I’ll tear his head off.”

The shelf began to tip gently, a stimpak syringe sliding gently off and skittering on the bare concrete floor.

“Alright, alright!” Mick said defensively, raising his hands. “What do you want to know?”

“We need to know about any shipments you’ve got coming in,” Michael said. “Specifically, ones of guns.”

“There was one guy,” Mick said. “Said he could get me a bulk load of them at cut price.”

“Which guy?” Michael asked, leaning forwards across the counter.

“Name of Feyman,” Mick replied. “Antony Feyman. He didn’t tell me where he got the guns, and the deal was too good to turn down.”

“Feyman,” Michael said. “Alright, good. Where can we find this guy?”

“I was going to meet him by the Mormon Fort where the Followers of the Apocalypse stay,” Mick said. “Arranging details and that sort of thing.”

“When?” Michael asked.

“Three p.m. today,” Mick replied. “That’s all I know. Are you done?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Michael said as Brutus gently let the shelf fall back upright. “Thanks very much, Mick; I appreciate you helping us.”

He nodded to Brutus as he headed for the door, the two of them stepping out onto the strip. Michael snapped his shades open and slid them on to protect his eyes from the glare, removing his fedora to fan himself for a moment before placing it with the brim forwards to try and shade his face a little.

“So, Mormon Fort, three p.m.,” he said to Brutus. “Anthony Feyman. Looks like we’ve got our guy.”

Brutus nodded; “Seems a pretty easy job, I’d say. Nice way to get three grand.”

“I dunno,” Michael said. “They wouldn’t be paying this much if they thought it would be simple. Whoever was able to steal an entire weapon shipment from the gun runners either has a lot of muscle or a lot of smarts.”

“So you reckon Feyman isn’t the guy we want?” Brutus asked as they set out through Freeside, past the ancient, rusted shells of cars and crumbling buildings.

“Nah,” Michael said. “He’s probably a middle man or something. Still, we can trace him back to whoever’s responsible.”

Brutus nodded.

“Makes sense, I guess,” he said, as they reached crossroads that lead towards the Atomic Wrangler Casino and the Silver Rush, home to the main rivals of the Gun Runners, the Van Graff family. Ripley was lounging against the wall, the necrotic ghoul leering cheerfully at the girl who worked as the crier for the Atomic Wrangler before he noticed his two colleagues approaching.

“Hey boss,” he called, pushing away from the wall and heading towards them. “How’d the shakedown at Mick and Ralph’s go?”

“Pretty good,” Michael said. “I thought I asked you to go ask around in the Wrangler.”

“Yeah, but there were a bunch of guys giving me lip and calling me zombie and so on, and management wanted me out before they started a scene,” Ripley replied. He spat up a gobbet of thick phlegm in disgust. “Goddamn bigots.”

He shrugged, before adding; “Anyway, Doris and Alex are asking around inside. Hopefully they’ll have something.”

It was then that the door to Wrangler swung open and Doris and Alex emerged, both of them grinning triumphantly.

“You look pleased,” Michael observed. “You get anything?”

“Feyman,” Alex announced. “Anthony Feyman. Grilled a couple of merchants, said they had a shipment of guns coming from him. They were gonna meet him by the Old Mormon Fort-”

“At three p.m., I know,” Michael said. “Got exactly the same piece of news.”

“What’s the time now?” Ripley asked.

“One,” Michael replied, glauncing at the heavy gauntlet of his Pip-Boy. “Looks like we’ve got time to get things all worked out.”

#

One of Michael’s great talents was the fact that he could, for all intents and purposes, turn completely invisible when he wanted to. A trick he’d learnt long ago, all he needed to do was lean against the fort’s tan brick wall, fedora resting gently over his eyes to shelter him from the harsh glare of the sun, and adopt an air of such calm nonchalance that people’s gazes simply slid away from here. And so here he was, serenely smoking a cigarette and waiting.

Brutus was a few streets away, the Legionary’s massive profile far too noticeable for this sort of job, and instead Ripley was waiting with his scoped hunting rifle in an empty, derelict building down the street, while Alex and Doris were concealed in the alleyway opposite. All they needed to do was wait.

The clock hit three, and Michael watched as a figure in the usual heavy gear that most wasteland traders wore walked up the ancient, poorly looked after street, hand resting on the butt of a pistol by his belt. He stopped by the fort, looking around at its occupants for a moment; he subconsciously missed Michael, despite the fact that with his white suit with dark pinstripe he was easily the most extravagantly dressed person there, seeing a few beggars that huddled in the shade provided by the yawning maw of a long-broken shop window, a couple of Followers of the Apocalypse returning from their daily rounds with a Brahmin laden with water barrels. The merchant cast around once more for anyone familiar, before he settled into place with one hand in his pocket and the other still resting on the grip of his weapon.

“Anthony Feyman?” Michael asked suddenly, stepping forwards into view. The guy turned suddenly, jumping before he challenged; “Who wants to know?”

“Name’s Michael Anston. I was looking for you, hoping to find out about a shipment of weapons.”

Feyman glared at him suspiciously, before he said; “You’re not one of the people I contacted.”

“Well done,” Michael said sarcastically. “Have a cookie, pal. Now, I want to know a few things about that.”

“And why the hell should I tell you?” Feyman asked, slipping his pistol out of its holster. He paused as he felt something chill and sharp pressing against the back of his neck.

“Don’t,” Alex said from behind him.

“I’d recommend you put that gun down, friend,” Michael said in a tone that didn’t seem all that friendly. Obediently, the pistol clattered to the floor. “Now, I’m gonna ask you some questions and you’re gonna give me some answers. If you don’t, Alex is gonna start cutting little pieces off you, bit by bit.”

“Alright, alright,” Feyman said. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Glad to hear,” Michael said warmly, clapping Feyman on the shoulder. “Now, these guns. Where’re you getting them?”

“There’s a load of guys I’m buying them from who stole them in the middle of desert,” Feyman said, the bead of sweat currently tracking along the side of his head probably not just from the heat. “I’m getting them at a low price, and I’ve already got businesses to sell it on. It ain’t much, but the profits from it are gonna be big anyway.”

“Which guys, and when and where are you meeting them?” Michael asked.

“I’m meeting them later, up by Broken Tooth Rock, at dusk, just to the east of here,” Feyman blurted out, all too aware of the blade Alex had resting on the back of his neck.

“Alright, and who are these people?” Michael asked.

“Look, what does it matter to you?” Feyman pleaded. “I mean, I’m just trying to make a living here, that’s all.”

“Just tell me who they are, Feyman,” Michael insisted. “Now, or I’ll let Alex go to work.”

“They’re Caesar’s Legion!” Feyman said. “Alright?”

“Caesar’s Legion?” Michael said. “Well well well, looks like our day just got a lot more interesting.”

This post has been edited by Colonel Mustard: Dec 11 2011, 10:05 PM